a love letter, por leonard cohen

You're going to leave me. I know you're going to leave me. Like you left Laporte. Like you left Arif. I'll be someone you call by his last name. Laporte didn't look too good tonight at the Alhambra when he limped over to say hello to you. He didn't want to give me his hand because it was so wet. He took the tips of my fingers and he smiled cheerlessly, as if to say: The greatest fuck you've ever had, the deepest love you've ever known, and she's going to leave you very soon, you poor stunned sonovabitch. In the car you told me that his hands always get that wet when he has to meet people. You know his terrors, don't you? As you know mine. We haven't seen too much from Laporte lately, film-maker of a certain period, when you were his juice, when he was allowed to tie you up, and you commanded him to treat you like a slave. Then you told me to look at the moon, so I looked through the windshield at the moon. Then you told me to be impressed by the colour of the sky, so I applied myself to a study of the royal blue Paris sky. The turbaned Sikh assigned you, as he always does, the most impossible space in the garage, and when we walked past his window, he said, as he always does, The Champion of Parking. In the room you did sail so sweetly into my arms. I'm yours. For tonight. Your big joke. And my heart still leaps up between the declaration and the punchline. Like you left Laporte. Like you left Arif, and then slept with his twin brother. I leave them just before they leave me. It's better that way, no? Not to have a crying girl on your hands. Okay, darling, you're sleeping, the night has come to an end, and I'm nervous as hell. You'll either read this by yourself one day, or we'll be reading it together.


— Leonard Cohen, 1980, in Four Letter Word: New Love Letters, editado por Joshua Knelman e Rosalind Porter.